Oh, it had been a weird evening, all right.

First, the daikini. He remembered that name, from somewhere - a spirit of some kind or another. When she had offered to heal him, he had unconsciously started to set up a barrier spell to keep her from touching him. An automatic, unthinking reaction, really, but it had been enough to start that weird effect of making his skin seem as if it were scaly.

And from there, it had seemed, she thought he, too, was some kind of spirit, a naga - a cobra god-spirit. And where did he remember that from?

And then, hoping for what he does not know, he had taken off the duster he had been wearing and shown the full-back tattoo that Pheus had seen, the first night he had awoken in the graveyard.

No memory of where he was from, no memory of who he was or what he could do. The magic he had, somehow, been able to use, almost as if some part of him remembered it from before. He had seen the strange effect it had on him for himself, though it was only an illusion. He knew for himself - again, not knowing how he had the knowledge - that it was something to do with how he cast spells.

And then it had gone from weird to utter chaos.

He hadn't seen her, at first. Still absorbed in the thoughts of his own past the daikini had stirred in him, he hadn't been observing his surroundings. Hadn't been paying any attention.

Of course, if he had been, it may not have made any difference. The sight of the woman's face - that flame-red hair, those blue eyes, the face he remembered so well, in every intimate detail - and the sound of her voice, low, smoky, a voice any other man except for he and one other would have found tantalizing, inspiring thoughts of what it might be like to hear that voice whispering in your ear words of love, lust, passion.

For himself, it had always inspired the love a brother has for his sister.

Her voice, saying his name. HIS name.

Philip.

Philip Arrais Stanton. Son of Richard Wandering Bear Stanton and Asuka Stanton. Born in the Native American Nations, Salishe-Sidhe Nation. Brother to Michael and Rebecca.

And suddenly, the dream crashes into his mind.

Waiting. Watching. The target approaching.

Fire. Explosions. Violence.

Death. Blood. A monster in a suit, conjuring great, demonic spirits from the blood of a fallen comrade.

Slaying the monster, leaping to the astral plane to protect his brother and sister.

Slaying the monster that was conjured from the blood of a teammate. Looking for the red-haired woman - his sister, Becca, the Phoenix, always rising from the ashes, always the survivor. Relieved to see she is all right, on her feet, ready to go on.

Then looking for his brother, Michael. The Wraith, the unseen, the vengeful spirit. And then seeing the worst sight of all.

There, next to his body, the man in the suit.

Kneeling over his slumped body.

Knife at his throat.

Looking up at him, into the eyes of his spirit form.

A cruel smile on the man's face.

That instant of comprehension, as he realizes his mistake.

And then, the blood cascading from him as his meat body's throat is sliced open.

All of this had crashed into his mind as his sister approached him, and fear, and finally terror, had made him flee.

Fear that it was not real. Fear that, despite the feel of complete reality, he was, still, after all, dead.

Terror had surged through him, as he realized the dreams were not prophecy, not visions of another man...but of his own life.

And his death.

And as he ran, blind, into the alley, the streets beyond, all of the memories had come surging back to him.

His final hours, the six longest hours of his entire life, as he had been spirit only, unable to return to his dead body, his life's blood spilled on the ground.

The bloody, fetal, demonic form of the blood spirit that had been brought forth from the unholy sacrifice of his own body. Watching as his brother, Michael, had picked up the sword that their mother had left him, that the two of them had taken the time to develop into a magical weapon of enormous power, specifically designed for this type of threat.

The two of them, working as a team - his brother solid reality in flesh, he himself in spirit, knowing the end had already come and that nothing could be done to stop it, save to make his final act the end of the man who had murdered him.

The spirit destroyed. The suited man brought to his own bloody, final end.

The mission failed, but his brother and sister - his family - still living.

And the final hours, speaking with his brother, coming to terms with his end. The feeling of growing weakness as his astral form, denied its connection to flesh to sustain it, faded.

A final, tearful goodbye to his brother and sister, and finally, oblivion.

Or so he had thought.

He had ended up in the cemetery, the place he had awoken on that first night.

How can he still be alive, after being dead? How is it even possible?

Or is he dead...and his sister along with him?

And if so, what had become of his brother?

They have a saying for 'almost late.' It's called 'on time.'

And right on time he is. The lengthening and deepening of shadows at the corner of the shop heralds his arrival moments before he steps out of them, walking towards his sister as the shrink again behind him.

Whatever it is she's called him for, it must be urgent. Oh, sure, they cross paths once in a while, just to say hello, since they've been here. He'd never thought that she'd miss him enough to come looking for him here, let alone enough to be angry at him leaving without telling her where he was going.

Back home, they hadn't really spoken to each other for a few years. He'd never really understood why.

And a part of him find that he actually did miss that time lost, though he never would have admitted it then.

Probably Shariane's doing, inadvertently - he hadn't been in love for a long time before her. In fact, he had done his best to avoid any kind of attachment - in his old world, it had been too costly.

He takes a seat across from Becca, not bothering to order anything yet. Nor does he say anything, only raising his eyebrows at her in question.

Immediately, he is intrigued. He knows that tone in his sister's voice. One thing all of the Stanton children had been gifted with was an excellent memory. His sister's he knows, is enhanced, sharper than his own, though his is no less erring. He can't pull pictures from his mind at will and display them, but he has no problem remembering things.

Choked, nearly, with raw emotion, such as he has not heard from Becca in such a long time. Not for years, in fact.

Now what can this be about?

Without a word, he picks up the padd. Whatever it is she's showing him is ready to go. A simple touch to the screen begins the display.

He nearly drops the padd at the sight of the video.

Dark eyes widen, the mouth opening, but no words.

No words.

Oddly, he can feel his back itching, the maddening itch of healing flesh after a tattooist's needle had worked it, carving out a memorial to a dead man.

Memories flood into his mind, and with them, feelings.

Sadness.

Pain.

Loss.

All at the sight of Phillip's face before him, hearing his sister's voice, hearing his brother's voice replay. Confusion on that beloved face, that of their older brother, the one who had finally brought them back together shortly before his own death.

And he knows that face too well to think it might be a trick.

For a long moment, he simply stares at the padd, long after it has gone blank. One part of him tries to deny it.

The other, stronger part of him knows better. Knows his sister would not try a trick such as this, knows his sister would not have been fooled by a similar appearance.

Finally, he looks up at her, his dark eyes meeting his sister's blues.

No words need to pass between them to show her that he knows this is real. Nor the thickness of feeling, of emotion at the thought that they have their brother back once more.

He knows the question is redundant, meant to give voice to the question both of them are asking themselves. And yet, if she had not asked it herself, he would have. For a long moment, he is quiet, before he gives the answer to her that both of them know already.

"There is no question, Becca. We do what we must do to find him. He is our brother."

He sets the padd down and reaches out, taking her hands in his, his dark eyes settled on her brilliant blues. "You may have to do this one on your own, sis, for now. Me and the other Guardians...we've got something going on that is going to require our attention elsewhere for a while."

Just then, the amulet at his neck shimmers, glowing from within with brilliant amber light. A shake of his head and a sigh as he looks down at it. "I have to go, sis."

A moment later the shadows close over where he was sitting.